Gleam, oh brighter than jewels! gleam my swinging stars in
the opal dark,
Mirrored along wi' the fire-fly dance of 'longshore light and
off-shore mark,
The roof-lamps and the riding lights, and phosphor wake of
ship and shark.
I was old when the fires of Arab ships
(All seas were lawless then!)
Abode the tide where liners ride
To-day, and Malays then,--
Old when the bold da Gama came
With culverin and creed
To trade where Solomon's men fought,
And plunder where the banyans bought,
I sighed when the first o' the slaves were brought,
And laughed when the last were freed.
Deep, oh deeper than anchors drop, the bones o' the outbound
sailors lie,
Far, oh farther than breath o' wind the rumors o' fabled
fortune fly,
And the 'venturers yearn from the ends of earth, for none o'
the isles is as fair as I!
The enormous map of Africa loses no lure or mystery from the fact of
nearness to the continent itself. Rather it increases. In the hot
upper room that night, between the wreathing smoke of oil lamps, we
pored over the large scale map Monty had saved from the wreck along
with our money drafts and papers.
The atmosphere was one of bygone piracy. The great black ceiling
beams, heavy-legged table of two-inch planks, floor laid like a dhow's
deck--making utmost use of odd lengths of timber, but strong enough to
stand up under hurricanes and overloads of plunder, or to batten down
rebellious slaves--murmurings from rooms below, where men of every race
that haunts those shark-infested seas were drinking and telling tales
that would make Munchhausen's reputation--steaminess, outer darkness,
spicy equatorial smells and, above all, knowledge of the nature of the
coming quest united to veil the map in fascination.
No man gifted with imagination better than a hot-cross bun's could be
in Zanzibar and not be conscious of the lure that made adventurers of
men before the first tales were written. Old King Solomon's traders
must have made it their headquarters, just as it was Sindbad the
Sailor's rendezvous and that of pirates before he or Solomon were born
or thought of. Vasco da Gama, stout Portuguese gentleman adventurer,
conquered it, and no doubt looted the godowns to a lively tune. Wave
after wave of Arabs sailed to it (as they do today) from that other
land of mystery, Arabia; and there isn't a yard of coral beach,
cocoanut-fringed shore, clove orchard, or vanilla patch--not a lemon
tree nor a thousand-year-old baobab but could tell of battle and
intrigue; not a creek where the dhows lie peacefully today but could
whisper of cargoes run by night--black cargoes, groaning fretfully and
smelling of the 'tween-deck lawlessness.
"There are two things that have stuck in my memory that Lord Salisbury
used to say when I was an Eton boy, spending a holiday at Hatfield
House," said Monty. "One was, Never talk fight unless you mean fight;
then fight, don't talk. The other was, Always study the largest maps."
"Who's talking fight?" demanded Fred.
Monty ignored him. "Even this map isn't big enough to give a real idea
of distances, but it helps. You see, there's no railway beyond
Victoria Nyanza. Anything at all might happen in those great spaces
beyond Uganda. Borderlands are quarrel-grounds. I should say the
junction of British, Belgian, and German territory where Arab loot lies
buried is the last place to dally in unarmed. You fellows 'ud better
scour Zanzibar in the morning for the best guns to be had here."
So I went to bed at midnight with that added stuff for building dreams.
He who has bought guns remembers with a thrill; he who has not, has
in store for him the most delightful hours of life. May he fall, as
our lot was, on a gunsmith who has mended hammerlocks for Arabs, and
who loves rifles as some greater rascals love a woman or a horse.
We all four strolled next morning, clad in the khaki reachmedowns that
a Goanese "universal provider" told us were the "latest thing," into a
den between a camel stable and an even mustier-smelling home of gloom,
where oxen tied nose-to-tail went round and round, grinding out semsem
everlastingly while a lean Swahili sang to them. When he ceased, they
stopped. When he sang, they all began again.
In a bottle-shaped room at the end of a passage squeezed between those
two centers of commerce sat the owner of the gun-store, part Arab, part
Italian, part Englishman, apparently older than sin itself, toothless,
except for one yellow fang that lay like an ornament over his lower
lip, and able to smile more winningly than any siren of the sidewalk.
Evidently he shaved at intervals, for white stubble stood out a third
of an inch all over his wrinkled face. The upper part of his head was
utterly bald, slippery, shiny, smooth, and adorned by an absurd, round
Indian cap, too small, that would not stay in place and had to be
hitched at intervals.
He said his name was Captain Thomas Cook, and the license to sell
firearms framed on the mud-brick wall bore him witness. (May he live
forever under any name he chooses!)
"Goons?" he said. "Goons? You gentlemen want goons? I have the goon
what settled the hash of Sayed bin Mohammed--here it be. This other
one's the rifle--see the nicks on her butt!--that Kamarajes the Greek
used. See 'em--Arab goons--slaver goons--smooth-bore elephant
goons--fours, eights, twelves--Martinis--them's the lot that was
reekin' red-hot, days on end, in the last Arab war on the Congo,
considerable used up but goin' cheap;--then here's Mausers (he
pronounced it "Morsers")--old-style, same as used in 1870--good goons
they be, long o' barrel and strong, but too high trajectory for some
folks;--some's new style, magazines an' all--fine till a grain o' sand
jams 'em oop;--an' Lee-Enfields, souvenirs o' the Boer War, some o'
them bought from folks what plundered a battle-field or two--mostly all
in good condition. Look at this one--see it--hold it--take a squint
along it! Nineteen elephants shot wi' that Lee-Enfield, an' the man's
in jail for shootin' of 'em! Sold at auction by the gov'ment, that one
was. See, here's an Express--a beauty--owned by an officer fr'm
Indy--took by a shark 'e was, in swimmin' against all advice, him what
had hunted tigers! There's no goon store a quarter as good as mine
'tween Cairo an' the Cape or Bombay an-' Boma! Captain Cook's the boy
to sell ye goons all right! Sit down. Look 'em over. Ask anything ye
want to know. I'll tell ye. No obligation to buy."
There is no need to fit out with guns and tents in London. Until both
good and bad, both cowardly and brave give up the habit of dying in
bed, or getting killed, or going broke, or ending up in jail for one
cause and the other, there will surely always be fine pickings for men
on the spot with a little money and a lot of patience--guns, tents,
cooking pots, and all the other things.
We spent a morning with Captain Thomas Cook, and left the store--Fred,
Yerkes and I--with a battery of weapons, including a pistol
apiece--that any expedition might be proud of. (Monty, since he had to
go home in any case, preferred to look over the family gun-room before
committing himself.)
Then, since the first leg of the journey would be the same for all of
us we bought other kit, packed it, and booked passages for British East
Africa. Between then and the next afternoon when the British India
steamboat sailed we were fairly bombarded by inquisitiveness, but
contrived not to tell much. And with patience beyond belief Monty
restrained us from paying court to Tippoo Tib.
"The U. S. Consul says he's better worth a visit than most of the
world's museums," Yerkes assured us two or three times. "He says
Tippoo Tib's a fine old sport--damned rogue--slave-hunter, but white
somewhere near the middle. What's the harm in our having a chin with
him?"
But Monty was adamant.
"A call on him would prove nothing, but he and his friends would
suspect. Spies would inform the German government. No. Let's act as
if Tippoo Tib were out of mind."
We grumbled, but we yielded. Hassan came again, shiny with sweat and
voluble with offers of information and assistance.
"Where you gentlemen going?" he kept asking.
"England," said Monty, and showed his own steamer ticket in proof of
it.
That settled Hassan for the time but Georges Coutlass was not so easy.
He came swaggering upstairs and thumped on Monty's door with the air of
a bearer of king's messages.
"What do you intend to do?" he asked. (We were all sitting on Monty's
bed, and it was Yerkes who opened the door.)
"Do you an injury," said Yerkes, "unless you take your foot away!" The
Greek had placed it deftly to keep the door open pending his
convenience.
"Let him have his say" advised Monty from the bed.
"Where are you going? Hassan told me England. Are you all going to
England? If so, why have you bought guns? What will you do with six
rifles, three shot-guns, and three pistols on the London streets? What
will you do with tents in London? Will you make campfires in Regent
Circus, that you take with you all those cooking pots? And all that
rice, is that for the English to eat? Bah! No tenderfoot can fool me!
You go to find my ivory, d'you hear! You think to get away with it
unknown to me! I tell you I have sharp ears! By Jingo; there is
nothing I can not find out that goes on in Africa! You think to cheat
me? Then you are as good as dead men! You shall die like dogs! I
will smithereen the whole damned lot of you before you touch a tusk!"
"Get out of here!" growled Yerkes.
"Give him a chance to go quietly, Will," urged Monty, and Coutlass
heard him. Peaceful advice seemed the last spark needed to explode his
crowded magazines of fury. He clenched his fists--spat because the
words would not flow fast enough--and screamed.
"Give me a chance, eh? A chance, eh?" Other doors began opening, and
the appearance of an audience stimulated him to further peaks of rage.
"The only chance I need is a sight of your carcasses within range, and
a long range will do for Georges Coutlass!" He glared past Yerkes at
Monty who had risen leisurely. "You call yourself a lord? I call you
a thief! A jackal!"
"Here, get out!" growled Yerkes, self-constituted Cerberus.
"I will go when I damned please, you Yankee jackanapes!" the Greek
retorted through set teeth. Yerkes is a free man, able and willing to
shoulder his own end of any argument. He closed, and the Greek's ribs
cracked under a vastly stronger hug than he had dreamed of expecting.
But Coutlass was no weakling either, and though he gasped he gathered
himself for a terrific effort.
"Come on!" said Monty, and went past me through the door like a bolt
from a catapult. Fred followed me, and when he saw us both out on the
landing Monty started down the stairs.
"Come on!" he called again.
We followed, for there is no use in choosing a leader if you don't
intend to obey him, even on occasions when you fail at once to
understand. There was one turn on the wide stairs, and Monty stood
there, back to the wall.
"Go below, you fellows, and catch!" he laughed. "We don't want Will
jailed for homicide!"
The struggle was fierce and swift. Coutlass searched with a thumb for
Will's eye, and stamped on his instep with an iron-shod heel. But he
was a dissolute brute, and for all his strength Yerkes' cleaner living
very soon told. Presently Will spared a hand to wrench at the
ambitious thumb, and Coutlass screamed with agony. Then he began to
sway this way and that without volition of his own, yielding his
balance, and losing it again and again. In another minute Yerkes had
him off his feet, cursing and kicking.
"Steady, Will!" called Monty from below; but it was altogether too
late for advice. Will gathered himself like a spring, and hurled the
Greek downstairs backward.
Then the point of Monty's strategy appeared. He caught him, saved him
from being stunned against the wall, and, before the Greek could
recover sufficiently to use heels and teeth or whisk out the knife he
kept groping for, hurled him a stage farther on his journey--face
forward this time down to where Fred and I were waiting. We kicked him
out into the street too dazed to do anything but wander home.
"Are you hurt, Will?" laughed Monty. "This isn't the States, you know;
by gad, they'll jail you here if you do your own police work! Instead
of Brussels I'd have had to stay and hire lawyers to defend you!"
"Aw--quit preaching!" Yerkes answered. "If I hadn't seen you there on
the stairs with your mouth open I'd have been satisfied to put him down
and spank him!"
It was then that the much more unexpected struck us speechless--even
Monty for the moment, who is not much given to social indecision. We
had not known there was a woman guest in that hotel. One does not look
in Zanzibar for ladies with a Mayfair accent unaccompanied by menfolk
able to protect them. Yet an indubitable Englishwoman, expensively if
carelessly dressed, came to the head of the stairs and stood beside
Yerkes looking down at the rest of us with a sort of well bred, rather
tolerant scorn.
"Am I right in believing this is Lord Montdidier?" she asked,
pronouncing the word as it should be--Mundidger.
She had been very beautiful. She still was handsome in a hard-lipped,
bold way, with abundant raven hair and a complexion that would have
been no worse for a touch of rouge. She seemed to scorn all the
conventional refinements, though. Her lacy white dress, open at the
neck, was creased and not too clean, but she wore in her bosom one
great jewel like a ruby, set in brilliants, that gave the lie to
poverty provided the gems were real. And the amber tube through which
she smoked a cigarette was seven or eight inches long and had diamonds
set in a gold band round its middle. She wore no wedding ring that I
could see; and she took no more notice of Will Yerkes beside her than
if he had been a part of the furniture.
"Why do you ask?" asked Monty, starting upstairs. She had to make way
for him, for Will Yerkes stood his ground.
"A fair question!" she laughed. Her voice had a hard ring, but was
very well trained and under absolute control. I received the
impression that she had been a singer at some time. "I am Lady Saffren
Waldon--Isobel Saffren Waldon."
Fred and I had followed Monty up and were close behind him. I heard
him mutter, "Oh, lord!" under his breath.
"I knew your brother," she added.
"I know you did."
"You think that gives me no claim on your acquaintance? Perhaps it
doesn't. But as an unprotected woman--"
"There is the Residency," objected Monty, "and the law."
She laughed bitterly. "Thank you, I am in need of no passage home! I
overheard that ruffian say, and I think I heard you say too that you
are going to England. I want you to take a message for me."
"There is a post-office here," said Monty without turning a hair. He
looked straight into her iron eyes. "There is a cable station. I will
lend you money to cable with."
"Thank you, my Lord!" she sneered. "I have money. I am so used to
being snubbed that my skin would not feel a whip! I want you to take a
verbal message!"
It was perfectly evident that Monty would rather have met the devil in
person than this untidy dame; yet he was only afraid apparently of
conceding her too much claim on his attention. (If she had asked
favors of me I don't doubt I would have scrambled to be useful. I
began mentally taking her part, wondering why Monty should treat her so
cavalierly; and I fancy Yerkes did the same.)
"Tell me the message, and I'll tell you whether I'll take it," said
Monty.
She laughed again, even more bitterly.
"If I could tell it on these stairs," she answered, "I could cable it.
They censor cablegrams, and open letters in this place."
"I suspect that isn't true," said Monty. "But if you object to
witnesses, how do you propose to deliver your message to me?" he asked
pointedly.
"You mean you refuse to speak with me alone?"
"My friends would draw out of earshot," he answered.
"Your friends? Your gang, you mean!" She drew herself up very
finely--very stately. Very lovely she was to look at in that
half-light, with the shadows of Tippoo Tib's* old stairway hiding her
tale of years. But I felt my regard for her slipping downhill (and so,
I rather think did Yerkes). "You look well, Lord Montdidier, trapesing
about the earth with a leash of mongrels at your heel! Falstaff never
picked up a more sordid-looking pack! What do you feed them--bones?
Are there no young bloods left of your own class, that you need travel
with tradesmen?"
-------------
* The principal hotel In Zanzibar was formerly Tippoo Tib's residence,
quite a magnificent mansion for that period and place.
-------------
Monty stood with both hands behind him and never turned a hair. Fred
Oakes brushed up the ends of that troubadour mustache of his and struck
more or less of an attitude. Will reddened to the ears, and I never
felt more uncomfortable in all my life.
"So this is your gang, is it?" she went on. "It looks sober at
present! I suppose I must trust you to control them! I dare say even
tavern brawlers respect you sufficiently to keep a lady's secret if you
order them. I will hope they have manhood enough to hold their
tongues!"
Of course, dressed in the best that Zanzibar stores had to offer we
scarcely looked like fashion plates. My shirt was torn where Coutlass
had seized it to resist being thrown out, but I failed to see what she
hoped to gain by that tongue lashing, even supposing we had been the
lackeys she pretended to believe we were.
"The message is to my brother," she went on.
"I don't know him!" put in Monty promptly.
"You mean you don't like him! Your brother had him expelled from two
or three clubs, and you prefer not to meet him! Nevertheless, I give
you this message to take to him! Please tell him--you will find him at
his old address--that I, his sister, Lady Saffren Waldon, know now the
secret of Tippoo Tib's ivory. He is to join me here at once, and we
will get it, and sell it, and have money, and revenge! Will you tell
him that!"
"No!" answered Monty.